Twelve-years-old
I don’t want to talk about it.
I really dislike talking. It always seems to get me in trouble. I’m tired of being in trouble. When Jeremy says to go to the room for my punishment, it’s always the same.
Close the door.
Undress.
Bend over.
But the number one, most important rule?
Don’t. Make. A. Sound.
The worst part of it all is Jeremy always finds a way to make sure I’m in trouble. Jeremy isn’t my dad, but he’s all I have right now, and I don’t know where else to go. My parents died when I was four, leaving me with Uncle Jeremy.
I don’t think they would have if they knew what kind of person he is. They never touched me, and Jeremy touches me every chance he gets. It’s usually after a night of working the corner. I might be twelve, but I’m not an idiot.
I mean, I am an idiot, but I know things.
Every night he snatches his wig off, digs into his bra, and pulls out a wad of dollar bills that are always crinkled and stained. He kicks his high heels off, puts his feet on the coffee table, and lights a cigarette.
I glance at the clock and tears brim my eyes when I see the time. The night is young before the routine starts. It’s only six at night, which means he’s going to make me come to his room and help him get dressed. I hate it when he makes me help him. At least he will be gone for a few hours. It’s the only peace I get before he comes back and ruins the rest of my day and says I’m in trouble.
Run away.
My inner voice tells me to get out, go far away and never look back, but where would I go? I have a roof over my head here, food, and it sucks when he touches me, but he isn’t all that bad sometimes. I can deal with him until I turn eighteen.
I don’t want to deal with it.
It hurts.
No, I have to man up. I have to be a man. That’s what Jeremy always says to me when I’m crying into the pillow.
“Wayne Hendrix! You get your ass out here and help Mama get dressed, damn it. You know what time it is.” He pounds his fist against the bedroom door, and the silver knob jiggles from the force. No locked doors are allowed, but when my door is shut, he respects my privacy.
He must be in a good mood.
“Two minutes before you’re in trouble!”
I gasp. “O-okay, I’ll be ri-ri-right out, Uncle Jeremy,” I raise my voice so he can hear me and put my journal down. I know it’s a lame thing to do, but it’s the only way I can get my thoughts down without getting… Well, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
It’s in my journal. That’s what matters. I don’t write since I don’t know how, but I draw. I draw all my thoughts and feelings onto the page, and it helps me deal.
I roll out of bed and stare at myself in the mirror, wincing when I reach down to pick my shirt up off the floor. My butt is killing me from the last time I was in trouble. I haven’t been able to sit on it in three days.
Be appreciative you have a home.
It’s something I say to myself every day. I have a bed, it’s small, but it allows me to sleep. I don’t have a dresser, but I have plastic bins with my clothes in them, which is better than on the floor. Other than that, the room is bare. The floors are carpet, stained, old, and torn in a few places. The walls have a yellow tint to them from cigarette smoke because sometimes Uncle Jeremy likes to kick back and relax after he punishes me.
Don’t go out the door.
I have to.
Don’t.
The hard threads of the carpet dig into the pads of my toes, pricking them like needles from the build-up of grime over the years. No amount of vacuuming can help at this point. This house is filthy for life.
Just like me.
Not by choice.
It is. I choose to stay.
The door groans as it swings open, and Uncle Jeremy is leaned against the wall. He has pink and blue rollers in his light brown hair, an extra-long cigarette hanging between his red-painted lips, and his pink silk robe is open and untied, showing the thick hair on his chest. The cigarette bobs in